


Edge of Love

by JustAMouse



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAMouse/pseuds/JustAMouse
Summary: Nick's always wanted a baby. The timing was just never right.





	Edge of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly just wanted to write about Nick with a baby. That's it. That's the story. 
> 
> Warning that this is a WIP!

For all of the times Nick’s imagined this part of his life, he’s never quite imagined _this_ being how he got there. For a while he thought he and Aimee might, but then she met Ian, and Sunday is so perfect that he can’t be too angry about it, though god knows he’s tried. Miquita had entertained the discussion, but ultimately decided she’s not ready for a baby. And Nick…

Well. Nick is.

It how he ended up here, sat in the sprawling conference room at what has to be the most expensive family law firm in Los Angeles, several stacks of paper in front of him and a creased envelope resting carefully in his lap.

The woman sat beside him came highly recommended. Her name’s Rebecca, and Nick almost feels at ease beside her. Her accent is familiar, like Aimee’s, though her tailored suit and dark, sleek bob are anything but. She’s soothing, but professional, kind but sharp as a whipcrack. They’ve had half a dozen calls leading up to his trip out here, and now her perfect nails are flipping through the papers as she tells Nick to “Sign here, and initial here, and here and here and here, and then your signature again on the last page.”

When he’s done, Nick carefully caps the pen and sets it on top of the paperwork. He sits back in his chair, wincing at the smeary palm print his sweaty hand has left on the polished table. To cover it up he lifts the envelope out of his lap and slides it over to her, feeling a little like he’s ordering a hit. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Rebecca says. She flips one of the folders shut and pushes it towards him. Nick takes it with shaking fingers. “These are your copies. And these”—she slides the envelope into the other folder—“are mine.”

Nick watches the envelope disappear, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and counting his breaths.

That damn envelope. He’s been clutching it desperately since he picked it up from the bank earlier in the day. It’s creased from his fidgeting and damp from his sweaty palms. There are two cashier’s checks inside. One is for Rebecca’s firm, to retain their services. They’ll hold the other in escrow until Nick is matched.

Matched. He can’t really think about it without going a little lightheaded. It’s too big. It feels absurd and terrifying and not quite real. But somehow, despite how surreal the whole thing is, Nick is more certain about this than he’s been about anything in such a long time.

“Right,” Nick says. He pushes himself up from the table and swallows. “Well then.”

“It was lovely to finally put a face to the name, Mr. Grimshaw. And lovely of you to fly out for this. We could have had the paperwork sent to you.”

“I wanted to,” Nick says. “I wanted to come.”

“I’m glad,” Rebecca says. “I think it speaks highly of you.”

Nick thinks it speaks of his need to control everything, but he doesn’t mention that. Instead he shakes Rebecca’s hand and flees the building, blinking rapidly as he tumbles out into the sharp California sunshine. Shakily, he leans up against the façade of the building and clutches his folder of paperwork to his chest.

Fuck, Nick thinks. _Fuck_.

After a couple of minutes, Nick’s starting to get stares from passersby, so he heaves himself away from the building and digs the keys to his rental out of his pocket. He thumbs his phone back on, pausing just inside the parking deck to let his eyes adjust. His phone buzzes with a handful of messages and alerts, mostly group texts and a calendar reminder to check in for his flight tomorrow. He’s about to slip it back into his pocket when Harry’s name flashes across the screen.

Unbidden, a grin creeps over Nick’s face. He rolls his head from side to side, trying to ease a little of the tension out of his neck.

“Hiya, Harry Styles,” he says, cradling the phone and resting it between his cheek and shoulder so he can open the car door.

“Are you in LA?” Harry demands.

“Hello to you too. Long time, no talk to.”

“I rang your mum to see if she’d give me the recipes for those potatoes and she said you were out here. Are you really?”

“Eileen’s taking that recipe to her grave, you know that. If you want her potatoes you’ll have to come to England for ‘em. And yes, I am.”

“Asshole,” Harry says. “I haven’t seen you in four months and you thought you were going to come to LA and not even tell me?”

“I’m barely even here, love. Got in yesterday afternoon, flying out tomorrow evening.”

“And what? You weren’t planning to eat that entire time? You couldn’t fit me in for one glass of wine?”

“I was trying to do you a favor, see,” Nick says, sliding into the car and slipping the key into the ignition. “The trip was short notice, and I assumed you’d be busy but then if I called you’d feel guilty about giving an old man the shaft, so you’d wind up canceling on some wretchedly important Hollywood director, sabotaging the rest of your career and forcing yourself into destitution, and all because I couldn’t entertain myself for 48 hours.

“You talk a lot of shit, Grimshaw,” Harry says, laughing.

“I get paid to talk shit, Syles.”

A blaring horn bursts through the phone, followed by Harry’s muffled swearing. Nick starts his rental up, forever wrong-footed to be sat on the wrong side of the car when he’s in America.

“Where are you staying? I have three guestrooms, you know.”

“Last time I was here, only one of them even had a bed, and it was less a bed and more a mattress on the floor.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry says. “What do you think this is, _Designing Women_?”

“Oh my god, I love _Designing Women_.”

“That’s a rule though, right?” Harry must be merging into traffic, because another horn bursts through the speaker of Nick’s phone. “That gay men have to love _Designing Women_?”

“No,” Nick says. “That’s _Golden Girls_.”

“Oh my god, I _love_ the _Golden Girls_!”

“Quite rightly, Blanche.”

Harry laughs again, the familiar sound of it settling warm in Nick’s belly. For a second he can pretend nothing huge or scary has happened. He can pretend like he didn’t just fork over more than the down payment on his first house in hopes that one day a woman will want to let him borrow her uterus for nine months. He’s just Nick, talking shit to his best friend. Easy as anything.

“Honestly though, do you have plans? Come over. I’ll order that salad you liked last time. I think _Golden Girls_ is on Hulu.”

“You’re really not busy?” Nick asks. He suddenly desperately wants a cuddle, and no one does a cuddle better than Harry Styles.

“I’m not. I’m literally just on my way home from the gym.”

“Headed home from the gym to roast potatoes.”

“I’d roast potatoes every day if Eileen would fork over that recipe.”

“Never gonna happen, love.” Nick glances at the clock on the dashboard and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Right. See you in an hour.”

 

It takes almost ninety minutes to get out to Harry’s, which, given LA traffic, is bordering on a miracle. Harry’s left Nick’s name at the gate, so he’s buzzed straight through. He follows the winding road up and pulls in, coming to a stop between a lushly manicured lawn and a wall covered with some sort of climbing vine. He puts the car in park and, after a quick glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror, climbs out.

He’s no sooner got the door shut behind him than he’s got two arms full of an international rock star. All the air in Nick’s lungs squeezes out with a squeak as Harry wraps him up, lifting him up off his feet and burrowing into Nick’s neck.

“All right, all right,” Nick says breathlessly. “Let a girl breathe.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming here,” Harry says, once he’s pulled away and is grinning like his face will split. “I’m furious at you.”

“Yes, you look just livid.”

“I’m full of conflicting emotions. Fuck, it’s good to see you. And you look fantastic. You all right?”

“Good, yeah,” Nick says, because it’s better than the panicked words trying to climb all over themselves to get out of Nick’s throat. An hour and a half was far too long to be by himself in the car after the afternoon he’s had. “Bit peckish.”

“Food’s already here,” Harry says. “You got a bag or anything?”

“Nope,” Nick says. “Just me.”

“You should have one,” Harry says darkly. “Tell me again why you aren’t staying here. Why are you only here for two days? That’s a crap holiday.”

“It isn’t a holiday.” Nick follows Harry up the steps and through the front door. He’s struck, as he always is, by how bright everything is inside Harry’s house. White walls, pale grey couches in front of an enormous fireplace, a white piano blocking part of the view from the floor to ceiling doors that lead out onto the huge balcony. Rocky hills covered in green brush rise in the distance. “That fucking view, mate.”

“It’s ridiculous, right?” Harry says. “You’d think I’d get used to it.”

“If you did I’d have some question about the person you’re becoming, Hollywood.”

“Oh shut up,” Harry says. “Christ it’s so good to see you.”

“You too,” Nick says. He can’t really even remember why he didn’t tell Harry he was coming out. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

“You should be. You want a drink?”

“I’d kill for a glass of water.”

“Going wild in your old age, I see.” Harry pads into the kitchen and Nick follows him, sliding his hand along the pale granite countertop. Even the lighting in here is white. There’s a couple of bags of takeaway on the stove, and a gorgeous arrangement of lilies by the coffee maker. Recessed windows filled with small green plants are tucked into the wall on either side of the sink. “Was the drive just awful?”

“Standard LA traffic, I reckon.”

Harry turns and hands Nick his glass. “So what the hell are you doing out here if you aren’t on holiday?”

“I uh…had a meeting.”

“Bit far to travel for a meeting.”

Nick shrugs, feeling his face do something complicated. “I guess.”

“All right,” Harry says slowly. He frowns. “Nick, love, you all right?”

He remembers suddenly why he didn’t tell Harry why he was coming to the states. It’s the squirming, anxious feeling in his gut, the sweat building between his palm and the glass he’s gripping. If he tells someone—if he tells Harry—it’s real. It isn’t some nonsensical farce he can laugh off in a few weeks, not that he ever could. But if he tells Harry, he has to stop pretending he can walk himself back from this. “Fine, yeah,” Nick says. “Fucking starved, though.”

“All right,” Harry says again, stepping in and wrapping careful arms around Nick’s shoulders. “Let’s feed you.”

“Yeah,” Nick says. He lets himself sag against Harry’s chest for a minute before he straightens up and grabs one of the bags from the stove. It’s early for dinner, but he was too nervous for lunch, and his internal clock is so fucked from crossing so many time zones that he reckons it’s close enough to a meal time to tuck into a plate of pasta.

They take the food out to the balcony and spread it out over the table. Harry lights a couple of candles, even though the sun is still a long way from setting.

“So tell me what you’ve been up to,” Nick says, once he’s got about a kilo of carbs piled in front of him. “Besides harassing poor wayward travelers up to your hilltop mansion.”  

“You suffer so deeply, don’t you?”

“Endlessly.”

Harry’s gone for a bottle of wine, filling his glass too full and waving it at Nick, who shakes his head. “Just prepping for the first leg of the tour. Started rehearsals last week.”

“How’s it going?”

“Good,” Harry says. “You know, bit rough to start with, but it’s always like that. It’s been a while since we played together.”

“A few months, yeah?”

“Yep.” Harry shoves a forkful of kale into his mouth. “Since the spring. It was good, though, the break. Mitch gets so fucking worn out on the road. And Clare’s voice needed a break. She’s been on a yoga retreat, so she’s keeps making us do breathing exercises and like, waving sage at us and shit.”

Nick grins. “She’ll have you whipped into shape in no time.”

“Too right she will.”

“When are you off?”

“About six weeks, I think? You got the tickets I sent you for London?”

“I think Fiona forwarded them straight to her personal email, to be honest.”

Harry laughs and leans back in his chair. “I’ll send you some more.”

“Thought you were sold out.”

“Jeff’ll have a few put by.”

Nick has no doubt about that. He sometimes wonder if Jeff has to remind Harry to pay his car insurance, or get his teeth cleaned. Poor guy doesn’t get paid half of what he’s worth. He’s kept Harry sane these past years, and even though they’re not especially close, Nick will be forever grateful to him for that.

It’s just a little hard not to resent him captivating quite so much of Harry’s attention quite so far from home.

Nick shoves the thought away and spears another piece of pasta. “How long are you on the road this time?”

“Um, three months for the first leg, I think, and then a month or so off, and then back out for another…I’m not sure. Three more months, maybe?”

“Jesus,” Nick says. He feels exhausted just thinking about it. “What’s this? Fourth sold out worldwide tour?  I guess we can call your sophomore album a roaring success, then?”

Harry shrugs, going pink and looking down at his lap. “Not too bad, I think. Lucky.”

Nick’s heart pinches a little, looking at him drenched in California sunshine and ducking his head like someone’s going to jump out and shout _just kidding!_ and take back everything he’s worked so hard for. Kind and gorgeous and so lovely it seems the whole world is in love with him, and Nick loves him too, so much that sometimes it hurts to think too much about it.

“I was meeting with a lawyer,” he blurts out. “That’s why I’m in LA.”

“A lawyer?” Harry repeats, looking up with a furrow between his eyebrows. “What on earth do you need a California lawyer for?”

Nick sucks in a deep breath and pushes it out between his lips. The pasta turns to bricks in his stomach. “California has really favorable surrogacy laws, apparently,” he says, forcing himself not to look away from Harry’s questioning green eyes. “So.”

Harry goes still, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. “Surrogacy.”

“Yeah,” Nick says. He knots his hands together in his lap and jerks his gaze away. “The lawyer I met with works with a few agencies.”

“Agencies.”

“For surrogates.”

“Surrogates.”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Nick says breathlessly. “Cause I could use some support here, Harry.”

“You’re…you met with a lawyer about a surrogate?”

“I did, yeah.”

“We’re…we’re talking about the same thing here, right? Surrogate as in a woman who—”

“Who carries a baby for a person without the necessary equipment, yes.”

Harry swallows hard, staring a hole right through Nick. He leans forward and carefully places his glass on the table. “So you’re…”

“Trying to have a baby.”

A painful silence follows, with Nick trying to blink the grit out of his eyes and Harry staring at him, open-mouthed. It’s real, now. No take backs. No pretending it isn’t real.

Nick is trying to have a baby.

He thinks of about seven different jokes he could make to lighten the mood and wipe that look off Harry’s face, but he lets them linger there at the edge of his brain, unspoken.

After what feels like a millennium, Harry breathes out, his mouth curving into a grin. “A baby,” he says softly. “Bloody hell, Nick, really?”

“Really,” Nick says as feeling rushes back into his fingers and toes.

“You’re not having me on?”

“I wouldn’t,” Nick says, even though he would and probably has. He’s not now, though, and he’s desperate for Harry to know the difference.

“Oh my god,” Harry says. “Oh my god, Nick, a baby.”

It sounds realer, somehow, coming out of Harry’s mouth.

“A baby,” Nick says. “A little Grimshaw, god help us all.”

“No,” Harry says breathlessly. “No, it’s brilliant. You’re going to be the best, Nick. You’re going to be the best dad, holy shit. I just can’t believe…” He reaches out and grabs Nick’s hand. “I didn’t even know you were thinking about it, not seriously.”

Nick shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Not properly though.”

He shrugs again. “More or less. It’s been…I dunno. I kept thinking and thinking, and finally I just decided, like. Fuck it, you know?”

“Fuck it.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, picking up steam. “Fuck it. What am I waiting for? I’ve wanted to do this for so long, and I’m in a really good place right now. I can afford it, and it’s not like I’m going to get some girl in a family way, but this way. You know? I can do it this way.”

Harry squeezes his hand tightly, his rings cutting into Nick’s palm. He squeezes back just as tightly. “So today you were meeting with a lawyer to what? See if you wanted to hire them?”

“I did hire her. Or, well, I put her on retainer, I guess.”

“Wow,” Harry says. “ _Nick_. So what comes next?”

It all comes tumbling out then, the months of research Nick had put into this, the lawyer in London who told Nick his best bet was a California agency, and helped him understand how much work it would be have an international surrogate. He tells him about going to the bank and walking out with a pair of checks that might turn him into a dad. About how he has to be matched with an egg donor, and then with a surrogate, and how even then, there’s no guarantee. When he finally comes up for air, the sun has started to set, casting everything in a gold light. He swallows and reaches for his glass. “I’m going to get a refill. You want?”

“I’m all right,” Harry says, looking at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Nick brushes his fingertips over his own wet eyes, and stands up.

He can feel Harry’s eyes tracking his progress into the kitchen, where he turns the tap on and fills his glass with shaking hands. He turns, not even a little surprised to find Harry right behind him.

He shudders out a breath and folds himself up, making himself small in Harry’s familiar arms.

 

Three months later, on a Tuesday in late September, Nick gets the call while he’s on his knees in the garden, trying to pry a half-eaten house shoe away out of Pig’s slobbery mouth. It’s completely undignified and somehow exactly what he would have expected this to go, if he’d allowed himself to consider it. He’s been opening his desk drawer at least twice a day and staring at the paperwork, but not letting himself get any further than that, except late at night, when he’s somewhere between awake and asleep.

Then he lets himself imagine and dream. But only then. And only just.

Now though. Now he’s been matched with an egg donor, and a surrogate has pulled his file. Rebecca makes it sound very matter of fact—she would, of course. She gives Nick a selection of dates when he can come out. Nick picks the soonest one, fighting down the terror rising in his chest as Rebecca transfers him to the receptionist, who transfers him back to Rebecca’s assistant to sort out an appointment at the clinic.

After he hangs up, he goes and stands in a hot shower until his skin goes wrinkly and his hair is flat across his forehead. He wraps a towel around his waist and grabs his phone.

The call goes straight to voicemail, which isn’t surprising. Nick can’t remember where Harry even is, much less if he has a show today or what time zone he’s in.

“H,” Nick says, forcing his voice to be steady. “Can you…can you call me? Nothing’s wrong, but the lawyer just called and I’m like…you know. I got matched. I’ve got to go to LA in a couple of weeks for—just. Can you ring? I probably should have texted, soz. Hope you’re not on stage or anything.”

He drops his phone on the bed and goes to book a flight.

Baby, he thinks, wrestling his credit card out of his wallet. Baby baby baby.

 

Harry calls back the next afternoon, his voice croaky and furious. “Two weeks? Two weeks from now?”

Nick nods, realizes Harry can’t see him, and nods harder. “Yeah,” he manages. “Flying out October 9th, I think.”

“Fuck,” Harry says. “I’m in Japan.”

“Now?” Nick says. “Or in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Harry says. “There’s no way I can get back.”

“I don’t…” Nick pauses in shoving produce onto the shelves of his fridge. “Why would you come back?”

“I…I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d want to do this alone.”

“I’m flying out to wank off into a cup, Harry. It’s by definition a solo endeavor.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Are you going to meet the surrogate?”

“If she wants,” Nick says, and that’s the part that makes him go a bit hazy around the edges if he thinks about it too hard. “Her decision, really. Fuck, this is mad, innit?”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Harry says. “Do you want to stay at mine?”

“Bit inconvenient, that. It’s ages from the hospital.”

“You’re flying three thousand miles for a wank, Nicholas. I think we’ve left convenience by the wayside.”

“Cheers,” Nick says. He straightens up and shuts the fridge, leaning his forehead against the cool metal. “I already booked a hotel, though.”

“Have it your own way,” Harry says. He pauses, then clears his throat. “You nervous?”

“Bricking it.”

“I could try to figure something out. Do you want me to—”

“No,” Nick says quickly. “No, but thank you. Besides, it’s not like anything is even happening. It doesn’t always work the first time. Or the surrogate might meet me and decides she hates me. She might change her mind about carrying for a gay man, or something might be wrong with my—”

“Nick.”

Nick clamps his mouth shut and grips the phone.

“It’s going to be fine.

Nick shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m sending it out into the universe. Say it back to me so I know you’ve not drowned yourself in your sink.”

“No.”

“Nick.”

“Ugh, all right. It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s going to be _fine_.”

“I already said it.”

“Nicholas Peter Grimshaw.”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry, all right. It’s going to be fine. Happy? It’s going to be just grand.”

“It _is_ going to be grand,” Harry says. “Because it’s you, and you deserve grand things.”

“Ugh,” Nick says. “Gross. I’m hanging up now.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. Are you poorly? You sound poorly.”

“Throat’s a bit sore,” Harry says. “Nothing terrible.”

“You being careful with it?”

“Eh,” Harry says. “Got some spray and I’m supposed to be resting it.”

“Then go rest it, numb nuts!”

Harry laughs, the sound tumbling over into a wracking cough that makes Nick wince in sympathy. “Numb nuts,” Harry finally wheezes, when he’s caught his breath. “I don’t think anyone’s called me that since I was about eight.”

“I’m really hanging up now,” Nick says. “Go rest your voice.”

“Text me later,” Harry says. “Love you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Nick says. “Love you too.”

 

The surrogate is called Ellen.

Nick meets her and her husband Bruce in a small pink room at the agency the day after he lands in LA, the day before he’s meant to jerk off in a cup in the unlikely event Ellen doesn’t run screaming from the room two minutes after meeting him.  As soon as he steps into the room, Ellen’s face lights up. She stands up and moves in for a hug.

“You’re so tall,” she says, her voice soft and bright.

“Erm, hi,” Nick replies, clinging a little desperately. “I’m Nick.”

Ellen laughs and releases him. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m a hugger.”

“That’s all right. I’m a hugger too.”

“Good,” Ellen says. “Now I don’t have to feel weird.”

“That makes one of us,” Nick says. He reaches out to shake Bruce’s hand, trying not to think about how mad it is that he’s here to see if it’s all right for him to put a baby in this man’s wife. Unfortunately there’s not much else to think about. The walls in the room are covered with black and white photos of newborns, and even the sight of these unknown babies makes Nick’s throat a little tight. “Nick Grimshaw.”

“Bruce Alderson. My wife, Ellen. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You as well. Bit strange, but nice.”

Bruce grins and folds himself up on one of the leather couches shoved up under a picture of a sleeping baby wearing striped pajamas. They’re probably pretty cute pajamas, but with the picture in black and white they just make the baby look like a tiny prisoner. Nick averts his gaze and sits down opposite Bruce. Ellen sits down beside Bruce and folds her hands in her lap.

They sit in silence for what feels like a week, but can’t be more than half a minute. Nick wishes he’d accepted the coffee the receptionist offered him, just so he’d have something to do with his hands. “So,” he says finally, when the silence has grown physically painful to sit in. “You two must have some questions.”

“I…gosh,” Ellen says. She splays her hands out wide. “I had a whole list and I’ve forgotten all of them.”

Her smile is beautiful, and infections. Nick feels himself relax a fraction. “Same,” he says. “Should have put them on my phone or something.”

“I mean, they sent us your file, of course. So we know…well, everything about you.”

“Right, of course,” Nick says. He’s used to people knowing things about him, but things like how he likes his coffee, or which one of his dogs has done a poo in the lounge, or about the time he sicked up old juice all over himself. Not things like he’s annual income, or whether or not he has a family history of diabetes or cancer. “I can’t think of what all must have been in there. I filled out a frankly unbelievable amount of forms.”

“They were pretty comprehensive,” Ellen says. “I have to say, I was a little surprised to see you were from England. It seems like that’ll be a little complicated.”

“More than a little, if I’m honest. I’ll have to apply for an American passport for, you know—” The word catches on his teeth. “For the baby. That takes something like six weeks, I think.”

“And that’s not a problem for your work or anything? Staying out here for six weeks?”

“I’ll be taking a year off,” Nick says. “I’m…you know. I’d like to take at least a year off. After.”

“Wow,” Ellen says. She nods. “That’s amazing. I mean, it’ll be exhausting. Being a stay at home parent is hard fucking—I mean—flipping—”

“Oh, thank god someone did it,” Nick says, anxious laughter bursting out of him. “And thank god it was you and not me.”

“Oh hush,” Ellen says, her cheeks going pink. “Anyway, being a stay at home parent is so fucking hard, but really rewarding too, especially when they’re little. You won’t be sorry. Well, no, you will be while it’s happening, but afterward, you’ll be grateful you did.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“We’ve got three little ones,” Ellen says. “You have to have your own kids before you can even apply to be a surrogate, and then you have to do all these screenings to make sure you aren’t just going to take some poor schmuck’s money and run.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Thought it might be. Probably should have led with that.”

Nick grins. “How old are your kids?”

“We’ve got a seven-year old son—”

“Hell on two legs,” Bruce interjects.

“And three-year old twin girls.”

“Crikey.”

“Extremely,” Ellen says. “But both pregnancies were lovely experiences, and I don’t want any more kids, but I wouldn’t mind being pregnant again.”

“Really?” Nick asks. “My best mate Aimee talks about it like someone pulled a bait and switch for an all-expense trip to the Maldives.”

“Some people hate it.” Ellen shrugs. “I love it.”

“And you’re not likely to take my money and run?”

Ellen laughs. “Signs point to no.”

“Well that’s something.”

She glances at Bruce, who shrugs and makes eyebrows at her. “I think the plan was for us to go home and have a whole discussion about this, but if you’re on board, so am I.”

“I…” Nick looks between the pair of them, staggered. “Really? Just like that?”

“Really,” Bruce says. He’s been mostly quiet, but he’s had a hand on Ellen’s low back the entire time they’ve been talking, and he leans forward and reaches across the table to squeeze Nick’s forearm. “You’re exactly the sort of person we wanted to help when we started talking about this.”

“And it’s not…” Nick forces the question out. “It’s not a problem that I’m gay?”

Ellen frowns. “What?”

“The gay thing. That I’m gay. Is that a problem?”

“Oh! God no. Why would that be a problem?”

“It’d be a problem for some people, I think.”

“Well,” Ellen says, shoving a fistful of sandy blond hair behind her ear. “Those people suck.”

Nick exhales. “And the fact that I’m single?”

“Look,” Ellen says. “The best indicator of being a good parent is the desire to be a good parent. Everything else is just details, you know? If you’re going to love this baby with all your heart, if you can take care of it and support it and really, truly love it, nothing else matters.”

Nick has to clear his throat again and stare down at his lap for a while, swallowing over and over until the tightness eases up and he’s not tempted to fling himself across the room and into Ellen’s lap. “Well,” he says finally. “All right. I can do that.”

 

It might not work on the first try, the counselor tells him, once he and Ellen and Bruce have signed so much paperwork it feels like the three of them are buying a house together. It might take several tries. It might never happen. It might not work.

 

It works.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say [hi](https://justamousethings.tumblr.com/)


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